


Peace and Belonging

by Raidho



Category: Dragon Age II
Genre: D/s, Fluff, M/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2011-03-24
Updated: 2011-04-14
Packaged: 2017-10-17 06:10:34
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 8
Words: 18,299
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/173763
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Raidho/pseuds/Raidho
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>All Aodhan Hawke wants is peace, all Fenris wants is a sense of belonging... which, it turns out, are not so different ends.  A series of connected shorts, many of which will be kmeme fills.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. More Than Pain

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> One thing leads to another... there's a first time for everything.

These works are authorized for posting exclusively on AO3 only and no other internet site without my explicit written authorization.

“You don't have to go.” Grabbing his forearm to stop him was reflex, my grip gentle but firm, it was meant to be a gesture of... support, I suppose. We hadn't touched like this before, as I'd been so very careful to respect his sense of space, he didn't like anyone being too close unless _he_ moved to _them_. So we'd only ever touched when necessary, in healing, or the time when he'd half-carried me bloody and mostly senseless up to Anders' clinic from the Undercity. His skin was surprisingly soft between the raised lines of the lyrium markings.

 

A spike of panic, irrational and senseless, gripped me when the lyrium markings flashed to their full brilliance, passing almost as quickly for a nervous calm, confidence in the single thought I had time for,  _he won't hurt me—_ this was  _my_ mistake, I had presumed too much, and between the two of us I was the one who had all the real power, the one in a position to abuse it. Except... well, it would be too presumptuous to let him knew who was really in charge between us when the others weren't around, and instead I just hoped he'd gathered that from context.

 

So when he slammed me against the wall, and the back of my head met stone with enough force I saw stars, my teeth clacked hard enough to make my jaw ache, I wasn't afraid. Anxious, yes, because when my vision cleared he looked angry enough to  _really_ hurt me, and I wasn't sure at all what to make of that. This  _darkness_ he'd spoken of... I wanted to believe he was strong enough to master it, but I suddenly questioned if the tentative thing between us was enough to overcome the unhappy accident of my birth—I could no more change my nature than he could change what was done to him by the magisters.

 

But the light faded, and the  _hate_ in him, and he suddenly looked terrified, started to move away from me again—I didn't let him,  _more_ afraid of him fleeing altogether than of breaking the taboo of space between us. So I embraced him, slid my hands across the slim angle of his hips to rest on the small of his back, stooped to be of an even height and leaned in to whisper, “I  _trust you_ not to hurt me, even after that.” He wouldn't look at me, still struggling to return to his usual calm, staring over my shoulder at the wall. “I won't stop you again if you try to leave, but I  _want you here_ , with me. The terms of that are up to you, but don't ever doubt it.” He twitched, green eyes finally flicking down to meet my own, still afraid but all the lines of his face softening—it was not a fear of something he had almost done, but a fear of what he was considering. It was perhaps the wrong thing to say, but I was well beyond thought at this point, and pleaded softly, “ _Trust me_ .” He flinched, as if about to be struck. “Let me prove myself to you.”

 

“Hawke....” His voice broke on the soft sounds in my name, and I feared I'd said too much too fast for him. But then his lips were on mine, soft, tentative... not at all what I expected after the passion of his anger a moment ago. I hesitated before I realized it was an _invitation_ of sorts, that he was unsure how to proceed and was silently asking me to lead him in this. I gently teased his lips apart and he gave himself over to me, leaning some of his weight into my grip. Mage that I am, I wasn't strong enough to support the both of us, so I reversed our positions, pinning him against the wall, kissed my way up the side of his neck, careful to avoid the tattoos, and began nibbling my way up his ear from lobe to tip. He gave an open-throated moan, a little note of surprise in it, and I nuzzled against the soft skin just beneath his ear, smiling to myself—he sagged against me, against the wall, and by the dazed look in his eyes when I drew away and the heavy hardness that brushed against my thigh as I moved he had been wanting this for a while, unable to let himself open up or let himself go.

 

Assumptions were made, about how far he might let this go, based on how he moved against me when I pressed him against the wall again, instinct overriding his stoic calm. I had wanted to be careful with him, but couldn't keep myself from grinding back, thrilling at the solidity of him against my own straining hardness. I suddenly wanted to confirm what I'd felt with my own eyes, hands and lips, and began working at the belts he wore until I could slide his pants down, and he gasped harshly into my ear as his erection slipped free, as I closed my fingers around it and began kissing my way down as far as I could go without pausing to remove more, and ended up kneeling in front of him. He was proportional to his build, save that he would be considered thick even compared to most humans, and a little thrill of anticipation ran through me at the thought of the delicious stretch and ache he would leave, more than just a memory on my skin to mark his presence. The tattoos trailed dangerously close to his hardness, marked the shape of his hips and curled down around the inside of his thighs—it was hard to imagine something so terrible could also be so very beautiful. I licked a gleaming drop of precum from the very tip of his hardness, and looked up for his reaction—I had never seen such lust in anyone's eyes, such _desire_. So I took him into my mouth with no further hesitation, gripping his hip with one hand and caressing with my other as I worked him. Quickly enough he stopped trying to stifle his sounds of pleasure, laying bare before me everything he felt in harsh gasps and shameless sounds, and he came with a lascivious moan that nearly undid me, spilling bright-hot and salty across my tongue. I took everything he could give, swallowing rapidly, eager to move on—I wanted this to last, and having him too eager wouldn't do.

 

He recovered his senses quickly enough, reaching down to slide a hand through my hair and urge me up. “Hawke,” his voice was already growing hoarse, still breathy with emotion, and the sharp tips of his gauntlet pricked the skin of my scalp. When I stood he kissed me, still uncertain but no longer hesitant, and instead of inviting me in he was looking for a duel of tongues. I obliged, moaned into his mouth, because I was having trouble containing myself—beneath his calm exterior he was so full of _passion_ , in every sense of the word, the same energy that colored his frequent outbursts of fury brightening his eyes and turned on me in a way that screamed of _want_. “ _Aodhan_.” Softer this time, deeper, and he settled a hand against my chest, began urging me towards the bed. Along the way we discarded every shred of clothing between us, and when he pushed me onto the bed with a little shove I expected him to crawl over me in some possessive, predatory fashion, shuddering at the thought—he was so small, but he was beautiful and dangerous and I wanted him to fuck me through the bed—but he slid in next to me, suddenly seeming smaller, as if he were instinctively drawing in on himself.

 

I refused to let it happen like this, rolled onto my side to lean over him, hardness aching to be touched but I still had enough control to know better. I nibbled at his ear again, and he made an appreciative sound, exposing his neck for me to taste the delicate flesh there again. I accidentally brushed against the tattoos there, and he flinched, but didn't draw away. _I_ did, just far enough to look at him properly, his mossy eyes still bright with desire and the haze and flush of arousal still on him. “How can you stand to wear clothing if they hurt so much?”

 

He returned my little smile with one of his own, nervous, hesitant. “It's the memory of the pain, they do not ache on their own. I _expect_ pain, even if only the ghost of it lingers.”

 

“Would you permit me to touch them?” He considered it for a moment, keeping eye contact as if searching for something, then nodded.

 

I started with the markings across his throat, brushing my fingers across them gently, tracing them with the lightest touch I could muster. They were more like brands than a tattoo, as the lines were raised slightly, and seemed to respond to my magic, the faintest tremor of light trailing behind my touch. When I reached the hollow of his throat and following the lines out along his collarbone, he shuddered, suddenly wide-eyed. The flush to his skin was darkening.

 

I stayed my hand, opting to caress his shoulder rather than continue with the lines of lyrium. “Is something wrong?”

 

He looked like someone who had just encountered a confusing taste, considering his words carefully before saying, “They are very sensitive.”

 

“Is that good or bad?”

 

“I... don't know.” His uncertainty clashed with the signs of growing desire that seemed clear enough to me.

 

Still, I didn't want to push him—if this was just about getting off we would've been done by now—so I started following the lines of them, beginning again at his throat, this time with my lips and the occasional flick of my tongue. He gasped, and his hands went to my shoulders, as if to push me away, but he hesitated, putting no force behind the motion, frozen by sensation. “Tell me to stop and I will,” I murmured against his skin, and he flinched, but made no move against me as I continued, hands eventually relaxing into a sort of possessive curl around my shoulders. The tattoos on his chest were scant, but I worked my way down those this time, crossed the hard plane of his stomach marked only by old scars to continue with the marks as they trailed down over his hips. His grip tightened, as if in warning, and I stopped, looking up at him.

 

“I can't....” He didn't have enough breath to finish, took a moment to gather some. “It feels _wonderful_. But I can't watch. It makes me expect the pain again.”

 

I crawled back up over him so we could look each other in the eyes more evenly. “Do you trust me?”

 

That look again, searching, before he very carefully said, “Yes.”

 

I left him for only a moment, retrieving a silk kerchief meant to go with some ridiculous noble's clothing I refused to wear, red as blood itself, and returned, folding it very precisely. I crawled up onto the bed, leaning over him again, finding his gaze expectant, curious—that he was letting so much emotion show so plainly was just as arousing as the little sounds and twitches he'd been making under the work of my mouth a moment ago. “You don't have to watch,” I told him. “I won't tie it on, just lay it over your eyes, so you can take it off if it becomes too much. Lovers do this, sometimes; removing sight temporarily increases other senses.”

 

He gave a sharp little intake of breath, and his eyes flicked briefly to the kerchief in my hand. “If it gets much more intense I'm not sure I'll be able to stand it.” But he took the folded kerchief from me, leaned up to kiss me, tugging at my lip, and then set it in place himself.

 

I started back at it again where I'd left off, kissing my way down the markings on his hips. He was fully hard again by now, and his hands were grasping for me once I was beyond his reach, panting and gasping at each little suckle and nip and lick, light following my touch, a little brighter this time, as if he were having trouble controlling it. When I ran my tongue down the arc inside his thigh he bucked a little, the blindfold falling askew. I paused to let him right it, and continued down, finding the lines running down the back of his thigh and lifting his leg gently to nip at them, down across the back of his knee and around his calf until I was nuzzling at the tattoos around his ankle. He was already panting and groaning, hardness twitching and weeping, when I started back up his other leg.

 

Fenris kissed me greedily when I returned to his lips, hands sliding up into my hair and keeping me close. He lifted his hips off the bed, straining to bring our erections together, and I wanted the contact but I knew I wasn't strong enough to pin him and it might undo me before either of us was ready for it.

 

“ _Hawke_.” Fenris growled, untangling one hand from my hair long enough to rip the blindfold away, and the demand behind his voice made me shiver. “Are you going to _fuck me_ or just play around all night?”

 

I nuzzled at his neck again, drawing an appreciative sound out of him, and murmured jauntily, “Have you heard the old adage, 'tis better to give than to receive?”

 

“Yes.” He was clearly annoyed with me, but his voice was still full of desire, husky and dark.

 

“If you apply that to sex,” I propped myself up, grinning down at him, “then I'm what you might consider 'greedy'.”

 

“You don't....” He seemed confused, gave me a suspicious look. “But you're human.”

 

“How astute of you.”

 

“And I'm an elf.”

 

“I'm glad you're so self-aware; few are.” He narrowed his eyes in mistrust, and I couldn't help but laugh. “Why would I joke about something like this? Someday; variety is the spice of life, after all. But given the option I prefer to _take_ rather than _give_.”

 

Fenris hesitated, still suspicious, working the kerchief between his fingers. “I have never... done this, _to_ someone. Only had it done _to me_. I don't know....”

 

“Do what feels natural.” I leaned down to kiss the tip of one ear, ran my fingers through his snowy hair. “I'll let you know if you're hurting me.”

 

As with all of his actions that were not purely instinct-driven this night he weighed this one carefully, pursing his lips just a little, before asking, “Oil?” I retrieved it quickly, and he rolled up, leaving the kerchief on the pillow where his head had lain, taking the oil from me and pushing me onto my back. A little thrill of excitement passed over me at the forceful motion, the hungry way he looked over my body as if seeing it for the first time when he settled down between my legs. He explored with his hands, learning the shape of me and the feeling of my skin until his fingers just naturally wandered down to my hardness. He hesitated a moment, looking up to me as if for approval, before continuing down further. Fenris paused to slick his fingers, looking up at me again nervously, so I gave him a little smile, lifted my knees. He took that for the sign it was meant to be, circled the tight ring of muscle at my entrance with a slick finger before working it in.

 

Fenris was _efficient_ at this, which I'd expected—if he'd had no pleasurable experience in preparing himself or being prepared, why would he think to draw it out? At two fingers the fading burn was a delectable sensation, and he was gentle, so it was far from unpleasant. He brushed against a particular spot entirely by accident, and I bucked against his hand, seeing stars and gasping open-mouthed. “Aodhan?” Something about the way he said my first name— _Hawke_ was so impersonal--”Are you--”

 

“Talk later,” I grit out, and worked myself on his fingers when they stilled, but the angle was frustratingly wrong. He laughed at me, a beautiful sound, and left me empty and wanting, whining for the weight of him. Fenris hooked his hands under my knees and adjusted them to give himself more room, and when I saw him starting to line himself up I had to fist my hands in the sheets to keep from just thrusting against him.

 

When his head breached me I saw stars of a different sort, clenching my teeth and blinking away tears. Even relaxed and stretched as I was and slick as we both were, it _hurt_ , well beyond the sort of pain I appreciated. “Aodhan?” again, gentle, worried, and he had stilled just inside me, leaning forward and planting his hands on either side of me.

 

“It's been a while,” I gasped out. “And you're not exactly _small_.” He ducked his head as if embarrassed by that, hiding his eyes behind his hair, and despite the pain I laughed a little at how he could still manage to be embarrassed by a compliment when we were so intimately joined. “Just go slow.”

 

By the time he was fully seated we were both gasping and panting, doubting if this was the best idea, but I _wanted_ this, reached up to caress Fenris' cheek and draw him down for a kiss. We did that for a while, kissing and caressing, Fenris doing his best to distract me from the pain. I moved against him experimentally, found it _much_ easier now, and we kept at it slow for a while, working up to a rhythm. It became clear Fenris _had_ done this before, flesh remembering what his mind couldn't, instinct taking over when he pushed my knees up towards my chest, pinning them between us, changing his angle and pushing deeper on every stroke. The look he turned on me then was possessive, predatory and full of _desire_ in more than a physical sense. This was a _claiming_ of sorts, and I bucked harder against him, breaking our rhythm. His snowy hair was slicked to his sweat-glistening skin, green eyes dark with lust, skin flushed beneath the faint light of his tattoos, and the sight of him like this almost pushed me over the edge. I set my teeth and tried to hold back.

 

We did not work up to a frenzy but once we were both close he wasn't so gentle, his grip leaving bruises and his thrusts punishing, driving me down against the mattress, my own erection, long and slender in contrast to the thickness he had buried in me, rubbing against the taut muscles of his stomach. But it was so very like him, and I wanted _him_. When I came it was blinding, fisting my hands in the sheets and trying to capture as much of him as possible inside me, clenching down around that fullness, spilling myself across his chest and all but sobbing his name. It was too much, every muscle in my body suddenly tight with pleasure, and it left me trembling beneath him. Fenris followed soon after, the heat of his release blooming inside me when he stilled, his face buried in the crook of my neck and teeth grazing my skin while he growled out my name.

 

We remained joined for a while, neither of us properly able to catch a breath, my issue slick between us. He kissed my jaw before drawing back and pulling out of me slowly, and the absence of him was nearly as bad as the initial pain. Fenris' weight left the bed for a moment and I found I hardly had the strength to roll my head and look for him. He returned a moment later with the cloth from my washbasin, and cleaned both of us up a little, his motions utilitarian but gentle. When he was done I snatched up his wrist, and he didn't flinch for once, grabbed the kerchief from the pillow with my other hand and tied it gently around his wrist.

 

“Aodhan...?” Always a question, but I was so pleased he was using my first name in this intimate setting that I didn't care.

 

“For when you expect the pain,” I told him, smiling dumbly and laying a kiss on his knuckles. “To remind you that they can be more than pain. You should own your skin, not fear it.”

 

For a moment Fenris looked at me, his face unreadable, before he tossed the little towel aside and slid down next to me, his motions uncertain. So I took the lead again, laying my head against his chest and curling against him, too exhausted to do much else. After a moment of awkward confusion he settled one hand in my hair, stroking the shaggy mess away from my face and then continuing in a rhythmic fashion. “You are the strangest mage I have ever met,” he murmured.

 

“Thank you.”

 

\-----

 

When he fled the room the sound of the door slamming behind him rang hollow, as did everything else. The room seemed cold in his absence, and though I wanted to go after him I knew I shouldn't. It was not his way to be comforted or consoled, it was his way to come to terms with an issue first, and though I _worried_ I tried to have confidence he would come back to discuss it in time—days, weeks maybe, but he would be back. The night proved restless and I eventually dressed to walk over to the library, find something to distract myself with until exhaustion took over again.

 

I paused in the entry hall, surprised, aborted my original path even though I knew I must look a mess. “Gamlen? What are you doing here?”


	2. Drowning Sorrows

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Aodhan starts to break under pressure, but when it matters most his friends and his not-quite-lover are there for him.

The night was drawing on, and after several hands of Wicked Grace and several hours of drinking everyone was in good spirits: Merrill giggling and half-leaning on Isabela, who was not showing her drink nearly as much and clearly enjoying the little elf's accidental attention; Fenris had removed his gauntlets to avoid marking the cards, and had enough drunken warmth in him that he no longer moved quite so stiffly without them; Aveline had brought Donnic with her, who had agreed to play on the condition that she wouldn't get upset with him if he won, and while he was competitive enough the man didn't seem particularly concerned with winning or losing, content in the company; Anders was well out of his league with some of the players, but enjoyed himself all the same, happy enough to be away from the clinic and out of the Templar's scrutiny so long as he was in the presence of the Champion; and Varric, of course, did what he did best, dramatically losing or winning as he pleased and making sport out of throwing the game one way or another with Isabela's help.

 

The only obstacle to their good natured cheating was Hawke. Varric had discovered early on that his fingers were quicker than expected, and combined with his sharp eye and often unreadable expression he was a natural cheater; Varric had caught him instinctively counting cards the first time they played, unaware that most people  _didn't_ or  _couldn't_ , and he had a knack for laying a deck to perfect advantage. So Hawke usually wasn't allowed to shuffle or deal, as he couldn't stop himself from doing it. Tonight was just a friendly game, though, the only wagers passing between them being for drinks, and it was silently agreed on, somehow, that Hawke was actually paying for the rounds Isabela, Merrill and Fenris lost. Nobody said anything about it, so no pride was lost.

 

Hawke was much drunker than he usually allowed himself to be, never actually  _looked_ at Fenris even when speaking to him. Whenever Donnic made sweet little gestures toward Aveline, things you wouldn't notice without a sharp eye, he looked away, and would lose the next round phenomenally. Even Isabela's flirting with wide-eyed Merrill seemed to irk him, and Anders' flirtations with the both of them. Varric picked up on all this, the only one who wasn't blinded to it by some distraction.

 

“Oh, I've never noticed before—you've got such lovely hands, Fenris.” Fenris twitched visibly at Merrill's cooing, looked up at her briefly. “Have you ever thought about playing an instrument?”

 

The surprised sound the pulled itself out of the other elf's throat was not quite a bark, not quite a laugh. He recovered himself quickly enough, and Isabela and Anders started laughing. “What?”

 

“It's just, you've got such lovely, long fingers, but your hands still look so strong.” Emboldened by wine and the combined attention of Isabela and Anders, she stage whispered across the table, “If I were Hawke, I know what _I'd_ be doing with those hands.”

 

Fenris looked back down at his hand of cards, face perfectly neutral and eyes hidden by his hair but the barest hint of a flush creeping across his skin. Hawke was suddenly all smiles and laughter, joking with them, trading innuendo with everyone  _but_ Fenris, while he lost the next few hands dramatically, not bothering to conceal the fact that he was cheating for other people. Eventually he folded his hand, stood unsteadily, brushed his shaggy hair out of his face in a nervous gesture they were all well familiar with by now. He only made eye contact with Varric, and Varric didn't like what he saw there.

 

“I think I'm done,” Hawke announced, gave them a goofy little smile, one he generally reserved for his friends. “You all keep going.”

 

“You're not walking home _alone_ like that, are you?” Aveline's glare was almost tangible, as much admonition in her voice as concern.

 

“I'm the _Champion_ ,” he answered, smiling broadly. “But no. I'm just done. With cards.” Before she could offer any more caution he stumbled off to the bar, laying a hand to the back of each chair he passed for balance.

 

“Well, as long as he's still paying, let's keep playing!” Isabela made a grand show of shuffling and dealing the next hand, and they slowly ate up the space Hawke had left at the table until everyone had a little more room. Varric tried to keep an eye on the absent Champion, as the man had been through a lot recently, but the good spirits at the table were still infectious, and after laughing riotously at a particularly raunchy suggestion that went right over poor Merrill's head Varric lost sight of him.

 

Aveline and Donnic bowed out first, citing duties the next day as an excuse, though anyone with an eye for such things could tell they had other ideas. Before they left Aveline told the group, “Someone should check on Hawke when you get a chance.”

 

Soon after Isabela and Anders were escorting Merrill off between them with promises that Anders would show her “that electric trick” that Isabela had mentioned to her. Varric shook his head as the two humans sauntered off, motion sleek as a pair of cats, Merrill stumbling happily between them.

 

Which only left himself and Fenris, sitting in an awkward silence until Varric said, “Well, I guess that's it for tonight. One of us needs to make sure Hawke isn't drowning in his beer.”

 

“I don't think he would appreciate my presence,” Fenris murmured, and for an unguarded moment he looked shamed, refusing to make eye contact with Varric.

 

“And I don't think I want to listen to him blubbering like a child all night.” Green eyes flicked up to meet his, a little surprise coloring the shame, and Varric shrugged. “What do you think he does all night when he's here? What do you think he does when he's at home? He tries to drink until it stops hurting, but all it ever does is make it worse. I know you've got your angst and all that, but think about what's happened to him in the past month. About how much of that happened in _one night_.”

 

“He... told you, then?” Fenris' voice darkened, and he seemed to be trying to hide behind the hair obscuring his eyes.

 

“He didn't need to. I make it my business to know these things.” Varric threw his hands wide, shook his head, exasperated with the whole thing. “Look. I know you have problems. So does he. You're both my friends, but I'm not going to do what you _should_ be doing. You two need to talk, because that's about _half_ his problem. At his best he talks about going on a bender and siring a dozen bastards, which isn't like him at all. At his worst he talks about going back to Lothering. Can you imagine someone like him _missing_ being a _farmer?_ ” Fenris' eyes only met his for a moment, but the look in them told Varric, _yes_ , he could imagine Hawke wanting a simple life. “And worse things I don't want to talk about and you don't want to hear about. How do you do that, anyway? Break up with someone and make them love you _more_ for it?”

 

“It's complicated.”

 

“It always is.” Leaning forward, putting his elbows on the table, Varric did his best to catch Fenris' eye but the elf was very practiced at avoidance. “Look. All I know is that if Carver were here, he'd have kicked your ass _and_ Hawke's a week ago. And after seeing him during the invasion, I'm convinced he could do it. Hawke just acting like you're _not there_ is going to tear us _all_ apart!”

 

“It hasn't seemed... appropriate to discuss. He had more important things to deal with.”

 

“And now they're over. Right now _you_ are the _only_ important thing in his life.”

 

The pain in Fenris' voice was almost enough to convince Varric to stop pressing the matter, the elf sounded like he might be about to  _cry_ of all things. “I can't--”

 

“ _I_ can't get any sleep when he sits in my room all night crying in his beer. And I get it, I get _why_ he's doing it, he's lost a lot more than just you, and he's my friend. So I can't kick him out, but this has to stop. Fenris, look. I don't care what you say to him. Use my bed to get this worked out if you have to; I won't cry foul. You can tell him to screw off if you want to. Just _get it resolved_.”

 

With that Fenris stood, but he still refused to make eye contact, looking away, and Varric finally figured  _that_ part out, taking in the elf's broken stance, the slouch to his whole body that made him seem smaller—it was a throwback to his enslavement, refusing to meet someone's eyes under duress, and Varric briefly felt guilty for causing that but dismissed it quickly. If Hawke stopped crying in his beer and drinking himself to stupidity every night, it would be worth it.

 

“I'll... _try_ ,” Fenris choked out, and started making his way towards Varric's room. He was already out of sight when Varric noticed the elf's gauntlets still laying on the table.

 

 

Varric had given him some idea of what to expect, but it was still jarring to see Hawke sitting at the long table in Varric's room with his head buried in his arms on the table, shoulders shaking, an empty bottle of Rivaini rum and a glass with a little mouthful of brown liquid left in the bottom sitting at arm's reach. He closed the door behind him, wanting no one else to see this in an attempt to help Hawke save some pride, before calling out softly. “Aodhan.”

 

Hawke stilled, stiffened, rolled his head as if surreptitiously drying his eyes on his sleeves, then sat up, blinking his eyes blearily, and forcing a weak little smile. “Fenris.” His voice was tight. “Did you need something?”

 

“We... decided someone should check on you.” Fenris moved up until he was just an arm's length from the mage, and his hands twitched, resisting the urge to reach out and touch the man. “Everyone else has left. Will you be alright to walk home?”

 

“Of course.” The smile grew haphazard, decidedly _not_ any sort of emotion one would want to associate with a smile. “I'm the _Champion._ ”

 

“You still have enemies who would take advantage of your state. Meredith...” Fenris gestured emptily, a sort of grasping motion, not wanting to think about what might happen should the Templars decide _Champion_ wasn't enough to keep them from taking Aodhan. It was funny, he'd never though he would possibly fear _for_ a mage or want to keep one out of the Circle, but here it was all the same. When he'd owed Aodhan his life and more he simply pushed his hatred aside to repay that debt, and now... well, here they were, and Fenris often felt Aodhan and Varric and Aveline and Donnic were as much a family to him as he had never dreamed of having. There was no hate left in him for Aodhan, especially after what he'd nearly done the night they made love, only some measure of pity and respect and... other emotions. “Aveline and Varric cannot look after you all the time.”

 

Aodhan sighed resignedly, looking away from him and slouching, still leaning against the table. “We'd all be better off if they'd just let it go. If some thug decides to knife me in an alley on my way home, what's it matter if there's a guardsman or someone Varric's paid off to witness it? Because they won't stop it if I can't myself.”

 

“They care for you, Aodhan.” Fenris hesitated a moment, as this wasn't exactly his strong suit. “Its more to ease their own minds than for your safety.”

 

“If they really _cared_ ,” Aodhan muttered darkly, sinking further down until his cheek rested on his arms, “Aveline wouldn't be here every other night telling me what a child I am, that I'm making an ass of myself in front of everyone, and Varric wouldn't tell Corff to cut me off. If I'm _here_ I won't do anything stupid; if I'm at home....” He sighed again, buried his head in his arms again so all Fenris could see was his perpetually mussed hair. “Thank you for your concern, but I'll manage.”

 

“How long are you going to keep blaming yourself?” Fenris wanted to reach out and touch the mage, but he wasn't sure if it was to comfort him, to brush that mop of hair back and dry his tears, or to shake him until he saw sense. “Carver seemed more mature when we saw him. Your mother would not blame you, and no one wants to see you reduced to... _this_.”

 

“Then don't look.” Aodhan lifted his head, looked up at Fenris, eyes narrowed, lips drawn thin. “How long do you intend to keep hating me for an unhappy accident of birth? How long do you intend to let the marks your master left keep you his slave? And how long do you intend to remain _silent_ about--” Before he could say anything else Aodhan buried his head in his arms again, and though he was silent the shake of his shoulders betrayed his tears.

 

Fenris stood there, anger at Aodhan's words draining away immediately. They were perhaps deserved, and better said than not in Aodhan's condition. Still, he offered no comfort, uncertain how to go about it and stinging from the cruel questions. Eventually Aodhan's shoulders stilled, and he looked up at Fenris with a weak little smile, eyes red-rimmed. “I'm sorry. You didn't deserve that.”

 

Fenris shrugged, noncommittally; he most certainly _had_ deserved it, for his poor choice of words and the offenses themselves. “Would you permit me to walk you home?”

 

“I'd like that.”

 

Aodhan was _very_ drunk, it turned out, and had to keep a hand on Fenris' shoulder to keep his balance. Once they were outside he stepped away and after a little pulse of magic Aodhan's balance was more or less restored. Fenris grimaced at the taste of it on the air, assuming this was Aodhan's force magic keeping him grounded, because he still grinned dumbly and made a point of looking at everything _**but**_ Fenris.

 

They were halfway to Hightown when Aodhan's hand reached out for his, twined their fingers together, and Fenris finally realized he'd left his gauntlets on the table with Varric. After a spike of panic he looked up at Aodhan, found the man staring at him with a gentle smile, a warmth in his eyes that Fenris had never realized he craved. With a little squeeze Aodhan said, “I don't need more than this.”

 

“You deserve more,” Fenris muttered, looking away, and Aodhan squeezed his hand again, drew him a little closer. “But I can't give it to you.”

 

They passed the rest of the way in silence, at first awkward but growing more comfortable. Aodhan meant it, then, when he said Fenris didn't  _ have _ to talk about it. The mage was so very tolerant of every cruel word and thoughtless abuse, kept waiting patiently for whatever Fenris was ready to give but  _ asking _ next to nothing... it shamed Fenris, but he knew Aodhan wouldn't stand for that and so he didn't show it.

 

When they reached Aodhan's estate they stopped at the door, and Aodhan kissed him on the forehead, just the slightest brush of his lips. “Thank you.”

 

Fenris finally looked up at him, found only gentle acceptance and  _ love _ in those eyes. “Next time you're that drunk, send someone for me, please. Walking you home was... enjoyable.”

 

“I will.” And from the smile on his face, an infectious one that made Fenris' own lips twitch as if he were about to mirror the expression, Fenris trusted Aodhan would.


	3. Reading Between the Lines

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Fenris' reading lessons become so much more than just an embarrassment when he realizes the power of words... and a particularly pleasurable way to wield them.

It was _embarrassing_ to read the words aloud the first time, so Hawke was allowing him to read this passage through silently first, quietly mouthing the words and asking when something didn't work. The book about Shartan was “dense” according to Hawke, and perhaps not the best choice, but Fenris was determined to get through the thing—since Hawke had given it to him and they'd begun their lessons it had been sitting as a challenge, and now Hawke had finally decided he was ready for it.

 

Those early lessons had been spent sitting in front of the fireplace in the old mansion, a comfortable distance between them, then later on the balcony off the second floor landing in Hawke's mansion, among a little hanging garden planted by Hawke's mother, one Hawke quietly admitted to tending for his mother, his Fereldan accent growing a little thicker when he embarrassedly admitted his mother would kill the hardiest plant, but Hawke had more than his share of experience with growing things. Then back to the space in front of the fireplace at Fenris' home after their budding relationship became strained again.

 

And now that things were mended between them they did the lessons where it pleased them. Hawke had kept up the little garden even after Leandra's death, and after three years the balcony looked very out of place in the city, more green than stone and full of delicious, wet earthy smells. They had started there, reclining on a bed of soft pillows among the greenery, and moved in when they chill of night drew on. Now they were sitting in Hawke's bed, Hawke leaning against the headboard and Fenris sitting between his legs, using Hawke as something of a pillow to lean against. Supposedly Hawke was reading over his shoulder, keeping ahead of Fenris in case he had any questions, but he was doing far more distracting than helping, nibbling his way down those sensitive ears, nuzzling just behind them and drawing his hands through Fenris' hair. Fenris swatted him away from time to time, growled a warning, “Aodhan.” and the mage would stop for a while before seeming to forget himself and starting all over again.

 

When he finished Aodhan was kissing his way down Fenris' spine from the nape of his neck, lips soft and gentle, and Fenris warred for a moment between anger at the distraction or giving in to Aodhan's attentions. “I'm done.”

 

“I'm just getting started,” Aodhan murmured against the nape of his neck.

 

Fenris growled a warning, “ _Aodhan_ ,” and jerked away, brushing the back of his neck as if to get rid of the sensation.

 

Grumbling, Hawke settled his hands on Fenris' hips and his chin on Fenris' shoulder, and said, “Go on, then. Let's hear it.”

 

When he began reading aloud Aodhan stilled, quietly whispering corrections to him when he stumbled too hard, and otherwise doing nothing to disrupt. Eventually it seemed the whole room was filled with Fenris' voice, stutters and all, and it became something of a point of embarrassment for him. Even if it was only Hawke to hear it pained him, made him feel weak, and he eventually broke off, turning away from the book spread across his lap. “I can't--”

 

“You were doing fine,” Aodhan murmured, reaching up with a hand to caress Fenris' chin and nudge his head back toward the book. “Its not something you learn in a week or learn to do _well_ in a year.”

 

“Its been _three_ and I still sound like a fool.” Fenris sneered, turning his head to look down at Aodhan as best he could, catching only a glimpse of messy hair and another caress for his troubles. “I can read well enough to get by, anyway.”

 

“ _Getting by_ is not _well enough_ , Fenris. And it takes most children much longer to get where you are already; I've always heard its harder for adults to learn, so you're actually doing quite well.” Another gentle touch, and Fenris wasn't sure if he found them reassuring or annoying at this point. “Keep going.”

 

“Its pointless. I do well enough for my own needs. I don't see why we continue these lessons.”

 

“Well, firstly, I want you to rely on me for _nothing_. You're a free man, you should be able to sever all ties and make it on your own.” Fenris looked away, grimacing, grip on the edges of the book tightening. “”Secondly, it was an excuse to spend time with you when things were... tenuous. It still is an excuse. Thirdly,” Aodhan nuzzled at the back of Fenris' ear, and by that the elf knew he was about to say something he was afraid would upset Fenris, “I am enamored of your voice. You never speak much, and when you do I find myself enraptured. I enjoy having you read to me, stumbles and all.”

 

He couldn't help but laugh a little, leaning back into Aodhan's embrace, settling his head against the larger man's shoulder for a moment. The admission made some light of the situation, and Fenris paused to clear his mind with a deep breath, to savor the feeling of Hawke's broad chest pressed against him, wondering idly at how muscular Aodhan was despite being a mage... the Magisters had often been weak or unfit in form, but it seemed outside the Imperium these apostates led hard lives, and Hawke's lean, sleek body characterized it well. Aodhan was not as tall or as built as his brother, not in any way abnormal, but he was broadly built and Fenris found it one more mark of his difference from other mages. “Next you'll be telling me that after I've left for the night you pleasure yourself to the memory of me stuttering through whatever you've had me reading that evening.”

 

Aodhan shifted uncomfortably against him, running a nervous caress down one arm. “And what if I do?”

 

Fenris opened his mouth to speak and found he had no words for a moment, uncertain how to react to this idea. If his voice had that much power over Hawke.... He deliberately lowered his timbre, making his voice huskier in subtle ways. “So you get off on our reading lessons, then?” More uncomfortable shifting, and Fenris leaned back a little harder, properly pressing himself into Aodhan's body, felt a growing hardness between the man's legs, little more than a throbbing heat at the moment. “You're better at holding back than I realized,” Fenris murmured, rolling his head back as far as he could and nipping at the underside of Aodhan's jaw before leaning in to whisper, little more than a breath from Aodhan's ear, “Let go for me.”

 

With a full-body jerk that was almost a convulsion, Aodhan let his hands wander around to lay a palm against Fenris' chest, the other against his taut stomach, well-developed muscles easy to feel through the tunic the elf wore. “You're trying to distract me from the lesson.”

 

“Whatever gave you that idea?” was a dark, sultry purr into the human's ear, and Aodhan's hand on his chest twitched, he turned his head away from Fenris and it was suddenly an awkward angle, but Fenris nipped at the helix of Aodhan's ear and continued. “I'm simply _taking_ _advantage_ of your little revelation.” Those hands twitched again, and Aodhan stifled a little moan somewhere in his throat. By how rapidly the man's hardness had grown and those little reactions his voice had a truly profound effect on Aodhan, and Fenris couldn't help but laugh, a surprisingly bright sound, not trying to inject anything sultry into his voice. “If you get off so readily on me reading about Shartan, what would happen if I read one of Isabela's books to you?”

 

“I'm glad one of us is enjoying himself,” Aodhan muttered darkly, and Fenris nipped his ear again, this time harder, in protest to his tone.

 

“You're not? Your reactions seem to indicate otherwise.” Fenris ground against him, enjoying the press and heat and _insistence_ of Aodhan's hardness, and the larger man stifled another moan.

 

Hands moved up to grip his shoulders, to urge him to move forward a little, losing contact with the straining hardness in Aodhan's pants. “You're making fun of me for something I can't help. Its humiliating enough, my lack of control.... _Of course_ I'm not enjoying myself.”

 

Closing the book and setting it carefully aside, Fenris turned, reached out to tangle a hand in Aodhan's messy hair and pressing him back into the headboard with the other, pinning him there. Hawke took in a sharp, short breath, almost surprised. “And if I told you I found it... _arousing?_ ” the way the word rolled off his tongue was organic and lusty, the sound of it rising heat. “The prospect that I could bring you to release without so much as _touching you_ ,” he drew in close to murmur in Aodhan's ear, breath playing hot against the other man's skin, “make you come on my voice as hard as you'd come on my cock...”

 

Fenris began kissing his way down the soft flesh of Aodhan's neck, just beneath his ear, chasing the man's quickening pulse with his lips. With another jerk Aodhan's hands came up to clutch at Fenris' shoulders, as if to draw him close, but simply hung in the air halfway through the motion. “ _Fuck._ Please, Fenris.”

 

“Stop holding back,” words rolled against his skin like a caress. “Because I'm not stopping until you've come for me.” The hand still tangled in Aodhan's hair began stroking through, a soothing repetitive motion. “Where's the shame, if its something we both _desire_?”

 

That one word, _desire_ , spoken against the hollow of his collarbone in a hot breath and a slow drag of lips, drove straight to Hawke's core, and there was no more strength in him for restraint, finally reaching for Fenris's shoulders to push him close, looking for some contact other than that wicked mouth, but Fenris resisted, insistent on teasing him, so Aodhan's fingers dug into the elf's shoulder blades. He could feel Fenris smile against his skin.

 

It was a point of shame, a point of _fear_ he couldn't approach, losing control over so small a thing—because much as Hawke seemed like a carefree sort, there was little about him that was _not_ about self-control. A lack of self-control meant there were cracks in his defense, weaknesses a demon could take advantage of—and if he went ass up for the first desire demon who simply used Fenris' voice on him, then what good was he? It was surely just as bad as the shame Fenris felt over his reading.

 

The hand tangled in his hair feathered down to cup his hardness, and Fenris still smiled against his skin. “Good. You're as hard as I am at the thought of getting you off like this.” Every single note and roll of Fenris' voice made his cock twitch, and he ground against the hand—or tried to, it was gone immediately, and Fenris was pushing away from him, shifting to straddle his thighs and setting hands against his shoulders, effectively pinning Aodhan in place. “You'll do _nothing_ that I do not tell you to do. Understand?” The growl and command and _promise_ all wrapped up in that dark voice made him ache.

 

“Fenris, _please_ \--” _Stop_ never made it out, and after a moment Fenris kissed him, sucking at his bottom lip until it sensitized and then running his tongue over it. Much as he feared it Aodhan _wanted_ this, and he tried to relax, to let Fenris have his way. Calming a little, he found there was more than just a wicked gleam and a need for dominance in Fenris' moss-colored eyes, but that deep affection they shared that was more than the scars left on the elf's body and soul from his servitude and more than the scars left on Aodhan's heart from their time apart and all his losses over the years. “May I speak?”

 

“Only to moan my name.” When Fenris let go of his shoulders Aodhan remained as he was, obediently, and the elf started working at his trousers, tugging them down roughly, and in the moment Aodhan's aching hardness came free he did just that, moaning Fenris' name, _pleadingly_. Fenris made a little satisfied sound deep in his throat, clearly pleased with himself, and Aodhan's cock twitched once more at the rumble of his voice, that wordless expression of approval goading him on to react more strongly.

 

“If I'd known you'd react like this, I would've done it sooner. I confess it has a certain... _appeal_ to me. I'm not used to having this sort of control over others save in fear. So what is it, Aodhan?” Fenris drew close, sharp face no more than a few blinks from him, eyes making perfect contact and Aodhan couldn't look away, drawn into the depths of desire he found there. “Is it that I'm an elf and you a human? That I'm _stronger_ , I could _take_ this from you if I really wanted to?” Fenris' hand was against his chest then, the pressure of his touch a subtle threat to back up his words, the faintest hint of light playing across his tattoos. “Or is it that you're a _mage_ and I am... what I am? Tell me.”

 

After a hard-won breath Aodhan managed, “Its you,” suddenly husky voice breaking on the tightness of his throat, his fear and his _want_. “Just you. Everything about you. You have every reason to hate me but--” The glow faded, Fenris drawing back a little, the inclination of his head and the set of his lips suddenly speaking _confusion_ rather than _desire_ and _control_. “ _I trust you_ with—everything that I am. I want--”

 

Fenris silenced him with a kiss, and Aodhan moaned into it, the heartfelt confession putting him even more in Fenris' power. The elf could ruin him, unmake him in a hundred different ways—but he wouldn't. Because they agreed more often than either of them would like to admit; because they worked well together, each having become good at reading the other's body language and guessing their next action; because no one else would be allowed to see Fenris in his more vulnerable moments, in admitting his illiteracy and that killing Danarius had brought him no peace; because Fenris had offered what Aodhan needed after Leandra's death, his quiet presence, a gentle touch, a chaste kiss. They were _friends_ first, above all else, and _lovers_ second, because of the lust between them and the bond that couldn't be explained to others without falling on romantic concepts. There was none of the hard desire of moments before, none of the control and submission, only affection.

 

And when Fenris drew away there was an instant of tenderness before the wicked gleam returned to his eyes and the coldly pleased smile graced his lips. The elf began unbuttoning his own tunic, slowly. “I think that honesty deserves a _reward_. What would you have me do? You know my hands are deft and strong, and I know how you ache for a touch—I could trace all the hard lines of you then tease with just feather-touches to your cock until you _beg_ for release.” _Beg_ \--the intonation of that word struck him, and Aodhan's hardness twitched. “Or I could tease you otherwise, work my fingers into you.... But you'd prefer my _cock_ , wouldn't you?” With the tunic finally unbuttoned Fenris shrugged out of it, tossing the thing aside casually, left sitting there in only the leggings that left absolutely nothing to the imagination when the elf was hard. Aodhan wanted to touch him, to feel the hard muscle under his hands, to _worship_ it with touch, but kept his hands to himself as he had been instructed, nothing without permission.

 

“Yes, I think you'd rather I speared you my with cock, split you open, flipped you over and _fucked you through the bed_.” Fenris whispered these words directly into his ear, bracing himself against Aodhan's shoulders and keeping their bodies carefully apart.

 

With a little gasp Aodhan managed, “Fenris--” Bit his lip to keep from saying more, remembering the rules of this little game. He could do nothing that Fenris did not permit, and that included--

 

“I'd let you suck me off, first, so I could spend myself in the wet heat of your mouth, give your ever-wagging tongue something to occupy it. And you'd love it; I know you do, much as you're loathe to admit it, servicing me on your knees. You _know_ what you look like from that angle, that your hair almost hides your half-lidded eyes, that in those moments you are _utterly_ _devoted_ to _my_ _pleasure_.”

 

\--saying anything but the elf's name. Not, _please, let me do it_ \--

 

“That way it would _last_ ,” a promise in those words, one that made him twitch again, painfully hard. “I would tease you for a while, with my mouth, perhaps....” Lips hovered just above the corner of his jaw, breath hot against his skin, the air heavy with the promise of a kiss. But it never came, and Aodhan gave a little cry of frustration. “...until I was hard again.”

 

\--not, _just fucking touch me already_ , because he was so close he was gnawing at his lip again, tasted copper as the heat began tightening in his belly--

 

“I would take you face down, pressed against the bed, take my time preparing you, never quite giving you enough, until you _begged_ for it. It would be slow, but a punishing pace, _hard_.” Breath still hot on his skin, Fenris's voice reached a new depth, each word as good as a stroke on his aching cock. Aodhan tried to buck up, looking for some friction, but Fenris gripped one hip, held him down. “ _Come for me_ , Aodhan.”

 

And he did, blinding hard and violent, moaning Fenris' name as loudly as possible, almost a harsh cry. When he surfaced from it Aodhan found himself curled up against Fenris' shoulders, hips and legs still pinned, the elf's free hand clasped at the nape of Aodhan's neck. Everything ached after that tension and release, and he felt spent in far more than lust, emotionally drained by the experience. When he made to draw away Fenris' hand left his hip to snake around his back,a gentle touch to mirror the repetitive stroking against the back of his neck. The grasp held him in place, so Aodhan simply leaned his head against Fenris' shoulder.

 

They drew closer in the embrace after a moment, Fenris' body pressed against him, Fenris' own hardness against his stomach, still bound by the leggings, almost a shock. Aodhan finally stirred against him, moving to satisfy Fenris' need, but the elf's grip stilled him again. “Not yet.” Aodhan drew away enough to look up at him, some feeling finally creeping back in after the numbing experience, and the look in Fenris' eyes struck him as deeply as those vivid descriptions. “Thank you.”

 

Aodhan couldn't stifle a little laugh, surprised at Fenris' words, the sincerity of his tone, and the sound itself. Emotional warmth returned with it, like the blooming heat of a new fire. “Thank _me_? Why?”

 

“For your trust.” Fenris brought his hand up from Aodhan's back, still keeping one curled around the back of his neck, to brush a lock of hair behind one of the man's ears. “For letting me do that. It helps... to _know_. To _see_ _it_.”

 

Aodhan gave him a bright smile before laying his head against Fenris' bare shoulder again, as he knew what the elf couldn't directly say and was trying to: the doubt was so deep-seated he struggled with it, probably always would, and seeing the effect his voice alone had on Aodhan and Aodhan's willingness to submit wholly gave him some measure of power, security, let him know that his emotions were quite perfectly reciprocated in such a demonstration. “Let's not get to reading Isabela's books aloud just yet. I don't think I'd make it through a single chapter with your voice.”

 

Fenris chuckled at him, a dark, rolling sound, and Aodhan nuzzled against the nearest patch of skin, delighted in this new find. “I think our lessons will be much more interesting from now on.”


	4. Comfort

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Under the control of a blood mage, Fenris very nearly kills Aodhan.

It wasn't like the stark, bloody clarity and agony of Danarius' magic, it was all song and haze and bliss. Danarius' blood magic had been all force and left him feeling savaged. This was seduction, red fingers slipping into his mind sweet as sex, all subtle curves and touches and gentle whispers that made him _want_ it, the red haze settling in his vision and wine-sweet whisper in his mind, _Kill the mage, dearest; no one will be your master but me._

He'd thought about this extensively, what he'd do if Hawke ever turned, felt it was his _duty_ as a friend and... and _lover_ to be able to give the man a swift end if he ever succumbed to a demon's call. All of Hawke's magic was offensive, all lightning and ice and force and hard, violent things, except that part that Anders was helping him twist towards the healing arts, which Aodhan had no knack for. He had no defense except to attack, and Fenris knew Aodhan wouldn't strike out at him.

And he didn't. Hawke offered no resistance but a frightened and sorrowful look from those pale blue eyes, one that cut through the red haze and struck a poorly-buried wedge of guilt. Flesh cleaved under his blade, collarbone cracking sharply under the weight of the sword, and for a moment the haze wavered, as if he might be free of it, but those red fingers in his mind _squeezed deliciously...._ A second blow mislaid because Hawke twisted as he fell, but the flat of Fenris' blade still audibly cracked ribs. If he screamed, Fenris didn't hear it, and ended up kneeling over Hawke's prone form, and for a moment before he dug his partially-ethereal hand into Hawke's abdomen for the painful, bloody end his new mistress required, he wasn't here, he was _panicking as a mage grabbed his arm, the lyrium singing to life, thrumming in his veins, and he had the mage pressed against the wall and ready to tear into them before--_ But it didn't _almost_ happen this time. It did.

The fingers slipped from his mind with a lusty sigh, and the blood mage choked out the last of her life around a crossbow bolt in the throat. Fenris carefully pulled his hand out, no major damage done there, as he hadn't had the time, and Hawke was thankfully, _distressingly_ , unconscious. Blood spilled freely from the wound on Aodhan's shoulder, and gleaming bone visible at the very center, and for a moment Fenris wasn't watching Aodhan bleed out, but _watching Danarius bleed out a sacrifice, the woman's eyes roving madly, looking for aid, her mouth open in a silent scream--_

And then Aveline was pushing him aside, trying to get Hawke to choke down a health potion, comforting him when he startled awake, gagging on the potion, and grasping for the soft kerchief that kept her armor from rubbing at her neck with an iron grip. Aodhan passed out quickly again, blood speckling his lips now.

Fenris simply _stood there_ , frozen, as Aveline gathered Hawke into her arms and started to carry him off, back towards the city. It took Varric, coming to his side and reaching a hand up to urge him along, to get Fenris moving.

It was as sure a shackle as Danarius' magic, as his conditioning, as his missing life. Up until this moment, surfacing from the blood magic to his hand phased through Aodhan's flesh, it had been a _comfort_ to think he could kill the mage if necessary, that it would be a final act of devotion should he become possessed. Now it was a point of fear, how _easily_ he could unmake the man....

“Come on, elf. He's tougher than this.” Fenris looked down at Varric's cocky smile, which held only the faintest hint of doubt. _No, he isn't._ But Fenris felt it wasn't his place to explain how much of the Champion's fragility he'd seen over the years.

It was the spark of fear in Aodhan's eyes that upset him the most. It was not sudden, not a _surprise_ \--not exactly. It had been the look of a man who had expected this doom or had at least considered it extensively but was surprised to find it in this moment. _Does he really_ fear me _so much?_

 _He would be a fool not to, and much as he_ acts _a fool..._

Varric's gentle guidance herded him to Anders' clinic, where Fenris finally looked up, surprised, watched Varric follow Aveline in, leaving the door open, saw Anders shooing the less injured patients out. In stepping aside for them Fenris got a better view of the table where Aveline laid Hawke out. He was pale, and at this distance Fenris could tell if he was breathing or not. And when Anders started his healing, when Hawke bucked off the table with a wordless cry, Fenris flinched, found he couldn't watch. It was, after all, the work of his own hands that brought Hawke this agony, and the work of the _abomination's_ hands undoing it. Fenris ended up sitting outside as dusk fell, sword propped against the wall, knees drawn up and head bowed.

And when Aodhan screamed for _him_ , he fled, grabbing his sword only in reflex.

These were shackles, sure as anything else. He found himself wandering, heedless of direction, until he arrived at the docks, staring out at the wide expanse of dark water and the pale moon weak and wavering against it, staring up at the tormented statues that lined the cliffs. The Gallows were nearby, a great spike of stone jutting out of the bay, the sight of it rending a serene, darkening sky almost _offensive_ somehow.

They were both fugitives, but Fenris was _free_ of his pursuers now. For Hawke the noose drew ever tighter, every action he took carefully noted by those men and women at the Gallows. Fenris had once entertained ideas of turning the apostate in, and now....

His hands clenched so hard the tips of his gauntleted fingers dug into the callused flesh of the heel of his palm, raising little pinpricks of blood. These were _not_ shackles. What held them together was interlinked desire; Fenris had wanted his freedom, and now he was free of all but the marks left by captivity, which Hawke was so very determined to erase, to teach him how to live as a free man instead of a slave. That Aodhan had always repaid his anger with temperance, and for _three years_ since they'd first made love had waited, quietly, with open arms, willing to be Fenris' friend and brother if they could not be more, happy to take whatever Fenris was _able_ to offer in return. These were, in fact, the very _opposite_ of shackles. This man had freed him from everything, even the compulsion to remember, by making his current life so welcoming Fenris sometimes forgot anything had come before. All he had offered was all Fenris wanted, now that he had his freedom: belonging.

By the time he'd wandered back to Anders' clinic there were no more screams, only quiet murmurs near the now shut doors, so Fenris waited. Varric stepped out soon enough, pale and shaken, but on seeing Fenris he composed himself quickly enough. “Blondie is keeping him tonight, to watch him. If he's well enough tomorrow evening he's getting sent home.”

With a little nod and a nervous swallow, Fenris decided to accept this as the wisest course of action. He didn't like Anders, but the mage had his uses, and this was one of them.

He got only fitful sleep that night, leaving him restless and irritable, haunting the mansion and watching out the windows for Hawke's return to the lonely home he inhabited. After nightfall, once all the nobles and merchants had retired but before the streetwalkers and thugs were out, a small group of City Guards swept into the little court that separated their houses, Aveline at their center with a precious bundle in her arms and Anders trailing behind. Fenris went to the upper floors of the mansion and slipped out a busted-out window, making his way around the court at this level to end up on the balcony Aodhan kept overflowing with greenery. For a while he sat there, knowing no one would notice him, taking in the sweet smell of the leaves and soil and the soothing rush of fond, recent memories, letting it calm him. When they left the mansion, door swinging heavily shut and mutters passing between them, he entered.

Hawke looked distressingly small against that enormous bed, his skin terribly pale under the scarlet sheets and his own darker red hair, the tattoo that curled from beneath one eye and up across his forehead dark as a livid bruise. A bit of one bandaged shoulder peeked out, and Fenris wondered how long he'd be recovering. Magic could only do so much to heal a broken bone, and nothing at all to restore lost blood. A shudder passed through the man, and Fenris drew the covers up to properly cover Aodhan's shoulders.

Blue eyes opened to barest slits, but they were beautiful as his first sunrise as a free man, glittering in the firelight. “Fenris?” His voice was weak, breaking, but the smile that accompanied it _so very him_. When Fenris just nodded, Aodhan asked, “...you alright?”

A startled laugh escaped him before Fenris realized it. “I nearly killed you and your first thought is to see if I'm alright?”

Just a moment of hesitance in which the smile fell, and Fenris wanted it back desperately. “Blood magic....”

“I'm fine,” Fenris reassured him. “The Blood Mage did no permanent damage to me.”

“Good.” Before Fenris could say anything further Aodhan managed, “Sit with me.” So Fenris did, stiffly, uncertain what he should be doing. There seemed to be no fear, at least, and Aodhan scooting over to lean against his thigh was more than welcome after the reflexive flinch Fenris couldn't yet control. When Aodhan managed to wriggle his way to laying across Fenris' lap, his head cushioned against the elf's toned abdomen, Fenris indulged a little chuckle, leaned back against the headboard. “You make a much better pillow.”

“You'd have me here all night, testing which parts of me are best to lay against.”

“Maybe.” Aodhan smiled up at him, weak and pale but somehow still full of _life_. Fenris just started taking his gauntlets off and setting them aside on a table next to the bed while Aodhan buried his face against the thin fabric covering Fenris' stomach. Then Fenris started running his fingers through that unruly dark red hair, smoothing it back from Aodhan's face, the repetitive motion soothing to both of them.

“You screamed for me while Anders was healing you,” was spoken idly, but as a question.

Aodhan stiffened a little, as though the question caught him off guard, and Fenris realized his left arm was bandaged to his chest, kept immobile in this fashion. “What Anders was doing hurt,” Aodhan whispered against him. “I thought I was being tortured. I called out for you.”

“I didn't come.” A moment of tense silence passed, and Fenris allowed it. _Because I'm a coward_ went without saying.

“You knew better,” Aodhan offered, and he nuzzled against Fenris' stomach, stealthily undoing a couple of the catches on Fenris' shirt with his mouth in order to find skin to press his lips against, lips that were much colder than they should've been. “If you had other reasons, they're unimportant. You're here now.”

A quick swallow to choke down his own nervousness, his _own_ fear, and Fenris managed, “I might hurt you again.”

Cold lips against his navel made Fenris shiver, a playful dip from a foolish and wicked tongue, and he couldn't help but smile _despite_ all his misgivings. At first he'd thought these sort of senseless actions in tense moments were distractions, Aodhan's way of avoiding a topic or a reflection of his inability to take much seriously, but he knew now it was a silent, _I don't care, I love you still_. He kept stroking Aodhan's hair, dragging his fingers lightly across the man's scalp. “You wouldn't hurt me without a damn good reason.” Even Aodhan's breath felt cool against his skin. “Someone invading your space without permission is a good enough reason. Blood magic is a _damned_ good reason. We're both alive now, and that's far more important than which of us is more dangerous to the other. You _know_ who'll win that argument.” Another little nuzzle, and Aodhan insisted, “If you've such dire need for penitence, then warm me up.”

Giving in with a little sigh and a smile, Fenris shifted to be properly under the blankets and stole one of Aodhan's pillows to cushion his back before tucking the covers in around the man curled against him. This was where he _belonged_ tonight, after all: between Aodhan Hawke and the chill night air.


	5. Open Wounds

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> More of what happened in the three years Fenris and Aodhan were apart: Aodhan tries to fill the holes in his life and fails utterly.

At three months the first invitation came, _We would be most honored if the Champion would grace our gathering with his esteemed presence._ Hawke had a laugh, and threw it away.

The second one came a week later, and this time, because he found the people who'd invited him at least mildly tolerable, he penned a respectful refusal and had Bodahn deliver it to them.

The third one came two weeks after that, while Aveline was visiting, and she read it for him, an amused little smile coloring her face. “You should go,” she said after. “You fought so hard to get this place; you should take advantage of it. Besides, it will be better for you than rotting alone in here.”

Aodhan flinched, looked away from her, but composed himself quickly enough, putting on a little self-deprecating smile and making some joke he couldn't remember a few minutes later. The wounds were still too raw, and people chafed against them without meaning to all the time, so it hurt all the more when someone started prying at the edges with their fingers. She had a point, though. The nights when he found himself standing alone in his mother's room, crying, too drunk to remember how he'd gotten there, were worse than the dream-memories of Fenris' skin under his fingers and lips, but Fenris lived across the court and was still part of his everyday life. He could look forward to a time when the pain of mother's passing was just a dull ache, but Fenris' very existence was salt in his wounds. Never mind that he understood, and didn't intend to force the issue.

So Aodhan had some proper clothes tailored and attended the coming of age party of one of his neighbors. She was an adult now, marriageable, quite striking for a woman—his tastes didn't really lean that way, but he could appreciate a woman's beauty for what it was, and there was certainly a charm to her smooth skin and her youthful form and the delicate bow of her lips, red as ripe strawberries and supremely kissable-looking. He ended up stealing a little of her thunder, unintentionally, endured a night of toasts and boasts and tales and gentle hints from her parents that twenty-eight was far too old for a man of his status to be unwed, which he fended off with equally gentle insistence that he'd just come to the very awkward end of an equally awkward romance and wasn't quite in a right state of mind to consider such a thing.

But after a night of raising his glass at every opportunity with nearly everyone and a little whisper from a particularly handsome friend of the girl, he found himself abed with her, and found that with a little alcohol and encouragement sex was sex. The curves of her and the softness of her body were strange and foreign, but he deflowered her nonetheless, and she thanked him after, breathless and flushed, for showing her a night of passion before her parents married her off to some hook-nosed inbred noble bastard since he wasn't interested.

Apparently, in his drunken state, he accepted another invitation at the party, which was later formally sent. This one was for a private performance from a group of Orlesian musicians, and after a sufficient amount of wine the night was a blank, but Hawke remembered enjoying himself. The lutenist, who had been a striking young thing, blond and pale and smooth-skinned, left a little trinket on his bed stand and later sent a letter thanking him for a wonderful night and politely refusing his offer of patronage.

Hightown was suddenly a lot friendlier, even if half the time Hawke couldn't remember quite what he'd done. The elders who disapproved of his family now disapproved of his behavior, which was much more tolerable because it was _his_. And the younger folks who'd been afraid of him or distasteful of his company no longer cared. A few of these party-goers were genuinely interesting even when he was sober, started paying social calls and asking for his company outside these functions. And those he liked he obliged, though the interaction was often hollow, Aodhan feeling as though he was speaking through one of those elaborate Orlesian tragedy masks. But it felt like that with everyone nowadays.

Except when he was drunk. If left to his own devices, it tore open those wounds and bared them to the air, and at least he could _feel something_. In the company of these pretty and petty strangers, the mask became a second skin. It became real. The humor and charm that was such a part of him, that made Carver hate him, that he wielded against his friends now to keep them from worrying, it consumed him. He was witty, desired, liked. And he could distract himself in meaningless words, wine and song and flesh, and wake up with a head so full of pain and stuffing he couldn't get his thoughts straight enough to dwell on everything he'd lost, not until it was time to start dressing for the next gathering.

Varric was waiting for him in the entry hall when he was ready to leave, entertaining Sandal with a coin trick. “Varric!” It had been some time since he'd seen the dwarf, too _busy_ suddenly, but the look Varric turned on him drained any pleasure Aodhan felt at his presence. He _knew_ that smile, meant to hide the same look Aveline turned on him when she was about to tell him in exacting terms what an idiot he was.

“Hawke.” Varric turned to him as he was coming down the stairs, gestured with open arms. “You don't stop by, you don't write, we're starting to worry. We still keep a space open for you for Wicked Grace, you know.”

“I figured since no one is here to take care of it for me, I should try to fit in. The more people like me, the less danger I'm in, after all.” He stopped a pace from Varric, hesitated, then gave the dwarf a hearty embrace.

When they drew apart Varric gave a little extra shuffle in his step, one of his few signs of nervousness. “That's why I'm here, actually. I've been hearing some rumors and Aveline asked me to stop by and look into it.”

“Those rumors being?” It was a dance at this point, each of them knowing what the other was about to say.

For a moment Varric looked a little helpless, and said, “Can we _not_ talk about this in front of Sandal?” They ended up in the library, Hawke bringing a spare chair down from the upper level, before Varric spat it out. “I've been hearing all kinds of rumors, some of them bother even _me_. That you're the biggest lush in Hightown, an easy drunk and an easy lay. Which I'm pretty sure I wouldn't have been hearing a few months ago had you taken an interest in being a noble then.”

“Things change, Varric. People change. I'm sorry if you don't like it, but that's how it is.”

“You see, _that's_ what I told Aveline.” The dwarf gestured sharply with a finger, as if pointing to the woman somehow from here. “But then I talked to Fenris about it. He said you'd promised him you wouldn't do this sort of thing without telling him first so he could be there to keep you from getting shivved in an alley. Well, he didn't say that _exactly_ , he was a lot kinder about it, believe it or not. And he was just as upset as Aveline, if not more. He finally told me what you told him when he asked you about Lothering—I've been trying to pry that out of the elf for _months_ now. He said you hated all the attention, that you'd go back to being a muck farmer in a heartbeat if given half a chance. Which doesn't make any sense to me, I don't see how you get the way you _are_ being a muck farmer, but there it is all the same.” Varric leaned forward in his seat, draping his arms across his knees. “What changed? Is it what I think it is?”

“Mother wanted this,” Aodhan murmured, looking away towards the fire. “Not exactly this, but she wanted me to be a noble here, wanted me to have the life she remembered so fondly. All I have ever aspired to has been very neatly taken away from me, and I am left only with the shell of her desires. There's nothing left of me, Varric, nothing worth having at least. I find... I'm too much of a coward to do what needs to be done, so if I want to go on I have to fill that void with something.”

“And when the wine and the good will run out, what then?”

“Then I hope that this crucible will have transformed me into something else, something that can have new aspirations. Or that I have suddenly grown some courage and can take matters into my own hands, as a man should.”

The implication stole words even from witty Varric, who had nothing to say, but shook his head and left.

That night the party was private, and they passed around more than drink, thick sweet smokes from Seheron that turned the air cloying and muddled his brain in a happy way. A week later he made an embarrassing visit to Anders' clinic, who made a wry joke about the circumstances but by the twist of his fellow mage's lips he was none too pleased with Aodhan.

And a handful of blurred-together days after Aodhan woke in the wee hours of the morning to Isabela shaking him, smiling with her eyes. “Your elf told me you don't lock the balcony doors. That's dangerous, you know, a thief might sneak in.”

“Like you?” he muttered groggily.

“Yes, a terrible thief, like me. Put on some trousers, I'm stealing you.”

Aodhan followed her out in rumpled clothing, his hair even messier than usual, blinking away the wine and the haze left by a night of debauchery. By the time he was worrying about the strange taste in his mouth they'd made it down to the docks, and Isabela fell back a little and into step next to him. She sat down at the edge of the causeway, throwing her feet over the edge, and beckoned him to do the same, staring out over black water at a setting moon. It was peaceful here in a way he couldn't recall having noticed before, and the cool, salty breeze blew the stuffy feeling out of his head. A smattering of clouds puttered past overhead, stars winking in and out behind them.

“I come down here to watch the ships sometimes,” she eventually said, looking out at the water and never at him. “I miss it terribly, but I'm sure you know that by now. There's nothing I wouldn't give to have that freedom again—except one thing.” And she didn't need to say it, Aodhan knew already, which made the whole thing less awkward: _friendship_ , his specifically. “I used to think it was everything that I am. I know that's not true, now, but I still want it like a Templar wants his lyrium.” Isabela finally turned to him, only gentle acceptance in her eyes. “This is the part where I'm supposed to tell you I know what you're going through. I'll be honest, though, I really have no idea at all. Its different for everyone. Not your family, or whatever is wrong with you and Fenris—you get over those sorts of things. But losing what you are... filling that hole is much harder than filling the hole left by a person.”

Aodhan choked back a sob and was surprised to realize that he was crying, but Isabela continued, no pity in her eyes. Only understanding. “You have to find your own way to live with it, and no one has a right to judge your methods. So long as you're not putting yourself in truly undue danger, no one should really give a damn. I just want you to know... some of us will stand by you no matter what.”

“Did Varric put you up to this?”

“No,” she looked away again, pursing her lips, and for a moment Aodhan thought she was lying. “Fenris stopped by to talk to me about it. Told me he thought I might be the only person who could explain to him what was wrong with you. I took it on myself to come talk to you, because if he was worried enough to ask for help, well.... it was worth looking into.”

Aodhan had nothing to say to that, so they sat there for a while, and as time drew on the little sounds and smells of the docks began to fill him, salt air and the repetitive waves against the stone. “This is all I've ever wanted,” he blurted out without meaning to. “Just... to have what I have and be left alone. To have peace.”

“I think the world's got different plans for you, kitten.” Isabela did look on him with some sympathy then, her voice a gentle purr. “You'll have to carve out your own little slice of quiet to get that.”

When the sky began to lighten she walked him home but didn't enter, and Aodhan went back to bed to sleep off his hangover. He wrote a note apologizing for the party he intended to miss that night, had Bodahn send it out, and spent some time tending the garden on the balcony that had been his refuge before. Mother had insisted on having it, and Aodhan eventually realized it was as much for his comfort as hers. Of all the places they'd lived Lothering had been his favorite, and he'd been happy with the sleepy life the town offered, with being one of the troublemakers solely based on his sharp tongue and quick wit without actually _causing_ trouble, but happiest working the soil and coaxing green things to life, providing for the family with the work of his own hands. It had been his solace after Father died, something to connect them besides the magic he couldn't really _use_ without drawing attention. He'd not been out here much since Mother's death, because it was a reminder of everything he'd lost. Bodahn had been tending it, but the garden had suffered under inexpert hands.

Once he had some dirt under his nails and his nose was full of the green smell nothing was any clearer, but Aodhan felt a little better, like empty hole in him was a little less raw. He sank down to the floor of the balcony, and pressed his forehead into the vines that spilled up and over the balustrade, closing his eyes and breathing deeply. But for the stone and the distressing coppery smell that permeated Kirkwall, he could pretend he was back in Lothering, and for a few moments everything was fine.

Fenris was light enough on his feet that Aodhan had no indication when the elf climbed onto the balcony, save the faint buzz of lyrium that would fade in and out when he was around. He stood there for a moment, likely standing stiff and awkward but internally quite distressed, uncertain what he should be doing and off balance. Aodhan let him stay like that, wanting nothing more right now than for Fenris to _leave_ and let him return to his own little fantasy that the Blight hadn't happened and he was still a happy muck farmer with an intact family instead of a miserable, lonely Champion of some city he hardly cared about with just a floozy pirate and an emotionally stunted slave as the only friends who didn't rightly judge him.

At length Fenris sat down next to him, and laid a hand on Aodhan's knee, a surprisingly intimate gesture from the elf. He was close enough that Aodhan could feel the heat of his body in the air, feel the buzz of the tattoos crawling across his skin briefly, reacting to his magic, and he smiled into the greenery.

For a moment he pretended that they'd acquired some land out in the countryside, that Kirkwall was more or less minding itself, that Fenris had agreed to come with him and give this supposedly simple life a try. It wasn't a bitter fantasy like the memory of his family, but a sweet one, a future not yet touched by pain. After a moment Fenris switched which hand was on his knee, and Aodhan finally drew back enough to look over at the elf, who was sitting nestled in the greenery, doing exactly what Aodhan had been doing at first, breathing deeply, taking some pleasure in the feeling of the leaves against his skin. Aodhan laughed, surprised himself with the sound, and Fenris offered what passed for a smile.

“Isabela told me that when a sailor was afraid of the water, they would throw him overboard and he either learned to swim or drowned. When I told her that seemed cruel, she said that later on they added a rope, and kept dunking the man in until he got the hang of it. And other methods, but she made sure everyone on her ship knew how to swim, just in case.” Fenris didn't even flinch when Aodhan's hand wandered down to cover his own, just kept on with his story. “It seems like that at times, trying to navigate all this, that I've just... jumped in, with no instruction.”

“You don't have to make apologies.”

“I'm not.” Fenris stroked Aodhan's knee with his thumb, careful to avoid tearing the fabric of the other man's trousers with his gauntlet. He could, at times, have such a gentle touch.... “I want to spend more time with you, want you to teach me how to live as a free man. I fear I may drown otherwise.”

There was a little twinge of pain at that, because somewhere under that stoicism Fenris was just as desperate as he was, that things seemed to be spiraling out of control on a personal level. It was less dramatic than Aodhan's descent, but more dangerous by far because it was being conducted alone. “We'll hold each other up, then, as best we can. I think I can manage that.”

They passed much of the evening sitting on the balcony, leaning against the vine-covered stone shoulder to shoulder in relative silence, save for the occasional remark from Aodhan on hearing certain voices down in the courtyard and rarer responses from Fenris. When the Chantry rang the appropriate hour they left to go play Wicked Grace at the Hanged Man, and if Aodhan was a little more subdued than usual and Fenris a little more open, no one commented on it.


	6. A Place to Hide

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Aodhan grows a beard, which has some unintended but not entirely unpleasant consequences.

They don’t see each other daily, and Aodhan only shaves when absolutely necessary, so Fenris doesn’t think anything of it when Aodhan has a little more scruff on his chin during their weekly reading lessons. Beyond taking note as the thing gradually creeps longer, and mild disgust when he contemplates how unsanitary the thing must be as it grows scraggly, how coarse the hair looks, Fenris pays it little mind.

Isabela’s snide comment as they’re out on the coast one day that, “Hawke is insulting your dwarfliness with his very presence,” draws a rare smirk, one properly hidden as he’s trailing behind them a little.

Varric glances up to the mage, who’s smirking behind the thing, blue eyes cast slyly down toward the dwarf. “So I should attach a bird’s nest to my chin? No thanks.” He runs his fingers down the lapels of his open coat. “I’ve got it where it counts.”

The next time he sees Hawke is at their next reading lesson, and the beard is shorter, tamer, smooth and sleek but not oily, and Fenris finds himself distracted by it, stumbling over his words whenever he tries to catch a glimpse of it out of the corner of his eye. He wonders what it would feel like to comb his fingers through it, since its just long enough to hang under its own weight instead of curling back under Aodhan’s chin, what it would feel like against his own face, against the skin of his thighs as Aodhan--

“Some days are just no good for this sort of thing,” Aodhan says, voice gentle, pale blue eyes understanding, but betraying no hint that he’s noticed Fenris’ embarrassing arousal. Fenris manages to keep the book in place until he’d calmed himself, and they part ways for the day.

Winter comes in hard off the sea, their second winter apart-but-together, and the winter storms blow out more of the windows upstairs in Fenris’ mansion, the howling winds and the icy rain finally drive him out one night when he’s sure the building is going to rattle apart around him. He pushes against the wind through the empty streets to Hawke’s mansion, where Bodahn sleepily answers the door after Fenris manages to shout down the howling wind. Aodhan is there almost as quickly, and while chiding gently he helps Fenris out of his soaked clothing, all of his touch disgustingly utilitarian, only friendly at most--Fenris almost hates himself for wanting more, for holding Aodhan back without meaning to.

Before long he’s slipping into a bath Aodhan’s used his magic to heat quickly (one good thing about being mage, Fenris grudgingly admits to himself) while Bodahn prepares the spare room originally meant for Carver. When Aodhan returns with an armful of clothing--a long shirt for tonight and a couple of things that will fit better and hold up against the chill a little surer in the morning--all Fenris can think about around his dumbly murmured, “Thank you,” is that the beard is longer but still well kept, and it looks _warm_. He wants to curl up against Aodhan chest and nuzzle into the thing, and is suddenly thankful that the flush of heat disguises his flush of embarrassment.

Once he is alone the mansion is full of ghosts, memories of things Aodhan has lost, and Fenris wonders how the man deals with it. Of course, Fenris fits right in.

When winter is nearly over, and they stumble out of the Hanged Man after Fenris has had far too much to drink and Aodhan is much more sober than either of them would probably like, an evening fog has rolled in. They’re both armored against the cold, Fenris with a coat that he insists is just ‘borrowed’ from Aodhan, ignoring the fact that it was bought for him and he ‘borrows’ it every winter, and its much too small for the other man. Mist collects in the mage’s beard, which is a slightly lighter color than his auburn hair, catching lantern light and even the faint glow of Fenris’ tattoos. Its like dew on a spiderweb, like a thousand minuscule pearls in a net.

They stop outside Fenris’ door, because he’s far more intoxicated, swaying when he stands still too long. “Will you be alright?” But Fenris isn’t looking into Aodhan’s eyes when the man speaks, or even at his lips.

He finally can’t help himself, reaches out with both hands, runs his palms down the shorter curls on Aodhan’s face, draws his fingers through the beard. The mist has made it exquisitely soft, not coarse as Fenris expected, and he tangles his fingers in it, delighting in the sensation. He leans in to a stock-still Hawke and rubs his cheek against the soft hair, accidentally nuzzling against Hawke’s neck as he does so. It _is_ warm. He wants to sleep like this, Aodhan’s heartbeat in his ear and the beard tickling his skin, wants it more than anything right now.

“Fenris?” Aodhan’s voice is soft, gone husky, and Fenris shushes him. After the chill begins to seep in and Fenris shows no sign of letting up, Aodhan leads him away to the house across the courtyard--his own house--and inside. Once divested of their coats they retire to Aodhan’s room, where Fenris gets to nuzzle against the beard to his heart’s desire, and he falls asleep that way, leaning against Aodhan in front of the fire, warm and happy..

He wakes in the spare room, alone in the large bed, and slips out before the embarrassment of his behavior can really sink in.

When Aodhan shaves the beard for the growing heat of summer, returns to his well-kept sideburns and never more than a few days’ scruff, Fenris is devastated and relieved... and looking forward to the next winter.


	7. Cherry Lips

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A cracky kmeme fill: Aodhan&co. crossdress for a good cause. Fenris is confused by his own reaction, but goes with it.

It had been a truly exhausting day, unpleasantly demanding mercenary work, otherwise Fenris would've waited for nightfall to sneak back to the mansion. He had no tolerance for the curious eyes and the glares he drew from Hightown's residents, so he went up by way of the Blooming Rose. The whores had some inkling as to who he was, and at least knew that he had been some awkward _thing_ to the Champion, so they were pleasant. They knew better than to proposition him beyond meaningless catcalls and friendly hellos. A particularly witty dirty joke might cheer him up as well.

As he topped the stairs, shoulders slouched under the weight of the day, a set of unfamiliar voices called at him from the doors, deeper voices but dripping honey. Three ladies near the door waved fans and made kissing faces. Fenris shook his head, laughed quietly-little could be more ridiculous than a whore who was deliberately overdoing it. He squared his shoulders and walked through the square a little taller, mood brightened by the overly-friendly greeting.

" _Oh, Creators!_ " caught his attention, and Fenris' head whipped up to see Merrill just in sight of the Blooming Rose, hands over her mouth and looking quite stricken, with Aveline behind her, arms folded and fighting back a smile, Isabela half-collapsed in riotous laughter between them.

"Fancy a go, dear Captains?" the dwarf called in a clear falsetto, and Aveline's lips twitched in response. Fenris, for his part, couldn't believe his ears, and started walking towards the three ladies at the door.

" _Varric?_ " The dwarf, perfectly clean-shaven and hair piled up into a meticulously curled bun, put a finger to his rose-red lips and winked, Fenris looked at each of them in turn, mildly astounded-Varric was easy to tell because of his hard, heavy jaw, but made the scandalous scarlet dress work anyway. "Anders." Anders nodded, was almost too tall, but had somehow managed to acquire a set of women's mage robes in his size, and had taken on a very demure and ladlylike manner for the ruse. And Hawke... _Well_ , he was already attracted to Hawke as he was, as a man, but Aodhan dressed as a woman was positively _stirring_.

He was not garishly painted, but had covered the tattoo with makeup and lined his pale blue eyes in kohl, just a little too much to be proper for a lady, and Fenris thought he'd look good like that even without the rest. His auburn hair had been teased forward and out instead of being left to its own mad devices, he was perfectly clean-shaven and his lips were lined and painted only enough to emphasize how very lush they were, and the thought of those lips wrapped around his cock made Fenris shift against a sudden discomfort in his leggings. Aodhan had managed to acquire the sort of robes the Dalish and Chasind wore in Ferelden, the women's robes that were so very low cut and slit to the hip. The man was nearly too broad to be convincing, but it looked as though he had cinched his waist and that made it _work_ , such that the width of his chest only made the stuffing look more _impressive_.

"Too much woman for you, sweetheart?" And Hawke had even managed to change his voice, somehow... it _was_ too much woman, too strange. He was handsome in a way that also made him _beautiful_ , but this was downright _disorienting_.

"Why are you...?"

"Some of the folks I met while I was drunk out of my mind are reasonable enough, and one of them made a ridiculous wager with me because they thought I wouldn't do it. That I wouldn't dress up as a woman, convincingly as I could, and entertain all comers, if you catch my meaning. Since I _am_ , they're going to be paying so much per hour I'm out here and match my take in donations to Lirene and her efforts to help the refugees."

He wasn't _too_ surprised by that explanation, a little disturbed that Aodhan was willing to be _that_ free with his body, and Fenris quashed rising anger by reminding himself that _he_ was the one who had walked away. But the others, _that_ didn't make sense. Fenris looked to Varric and asked, "And you...?"

"Just here to look pretty," Anders offered.

"And for moral support. It's a good cause, and we all look damn fine in skirts." Varric cocked his hip such that the slit of his skirt exposed more leg.

"Well, this is... that is, I wish you success. I suppose I'll leave you to it, then." Fenris managed to get away before the three ladies caught up, because he didn't want to endure Isabela's teasing or Aveline's disapproval or Merril's naivete. He felt Aodhan's eyes on him as he left, and they nearly drew him back.

Once safely inside the mansion Fenris stripped off his armor, letting everything fall away carelessly, exhaustion digging into his flesh with needle-sharp claws, echoes of pain running along every mark on his body, the lyrium buzzing in his head... and the thought of Aodhan's lush lips wrapped around his cock making his flesh ache for completely different reasons.

He felt guilty for it, but only for a moment, sinking down onto the bed in the only room he really used, pushing down his leggings and taking his hardening flesh in hand. If Aodhan was so very comfortable in those robes, and was obviously unashamed, even _proud_ of his appearance, why should Fenris be ashamed to _want him like that_? He preferred Aodhan as a man, no doubt about that, but the woman Aodhan was today was appealing in its own right.

Yes, he wanted little more than to march back out there and partake of Aodhan's _services_ , to have the not-quite-a-woman back him into the corner of some secluded alley and _drop to his (her) knees in front of him, to work his (_ her, echoing in his mind again, because Aodhan was _both_ in this fantasy _) flesh between those lush lips, working her tongue against him and swallowing around him and_ -Fenris almost came to the imagined sensations against his hardness, but pulled back , leaning back onto one elbow. He took a slower pace as he _tangled a hand in Aodhan's hair and pulled her (him) off, using his superior strength to lift the woman and press her into the corner, working the fabric of her robe up to find she'd foregone underthings for ease of access. He'd take her there, her legs wrapped around him, his hands seeking the edge of the cinch around her (his) waist and running his fingers along it, his lips exploring as much of her (his) breast as the robes exposed, her (his) tight warmth milking Fenris to completion._

Opening his eyes, Fenris found reality wanting, the fantasy so much more enticing than sitting in the mansion alone with his leggings around his knees and his issue cooling against his own thigh. Squeezing his eyes shut again, he saw Aodhan's face flushed under the makeup after crying out her (his) release, and a little shudder, an echo of his orgasm passed through him.

And somehow, it left him even _less_ satisfied than before- _because it's fantasy_ , Fenris thought bitterly, _and can be nothing more._


	8. Three Events

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Two kmeme microfills, and one flashfic on a topic requested in the reviews-there may be more on the topic forthcoming, but that's it for now.

**Them's the Breaks**

It was _delicious_ , one of his favorite things, the way Fenris stretched over him with both of Aodhan's wrists held securely in one hand, pinning them over his head. The elf had caught him by surprise, sneaking in from the balcony while Hawke was undressing after one of those insufferable parties, as this game often went. His fine silk shirt was thrown open, his pants and underthings pushed down around his thighs to serve more as a shackle than anything resembling clothing, and the _glare_ Fenris had him pinned with already had him half-hard. Aodhan hadn't been playing along, wasn't submitting tonight, and that glare was a promise-this wouldn't be gentle tonight.

" _Be still_ ," growled in that delectable voice, Aodhan could taste the agitation and the lust in those words on his _own_ tongue, bitter and sweet, and Aodhan's jaw was already aching in anticipation, he wanted to take Fenris in his mouth tonight. So he disobeyed, arched up, acting like he was far overstimulated and seeking friction.

And suddenly he was curled up on his side, blinking away tears, his left shoulder agony incarnate-he'd only been in more pain twice. "Aodhan?" Gentle, frightened, concerned-Fenris laid a hand on Hawke's shoulder and the mage screamed through clenched teeth.

And then he started _laughing_ through the tears, because this was such his luck. "You're too strong," he groaned.

"What...?"

"Dislocated my shoulder. Hang on." A wash of magic numbed it, but didn't fully fix it-he didn't want to use too much in such close proximity to Fenris, but it was enough that the pain no longer made him nauseous. He was still laughing, though. "Oh, that was... _hah_. I think we're done for the night. I need to find something I can freeze..."

* * *

 **The Only Way to Win...**

After a certain amount of alcohol, it had seemed like a marvelous idea—to some of them. Fenris excused himself from the table, murmuring, "The only way to win is not to play." Anders made excuses about an early morning at the clinic. Aveline had yet to arrive, and Donnic didn't want to leave before she showed up.

Which explained very neatly why Merril was wearing nothing but her leggings, her scarf and a happy drunken smile, why Varric was shirtless and bootless, why Donnic was down to an oversized shirt, and why Isabela was wearing her boots and her underclothes and not a stitch else. And Aodhan suspected she'd spiked his drink at some point, because everything seemed much slower, much fuzzier than it should've.

Isabela won the next hand, and everyone had to take something off. Merril removed her scarf, and draped it over Isabela's head, giggling, which Varric protested. "No fair giving her more clothes! That's an advantage!"

Aodhan and Donnic exchanged a look of exacerbation, sighed resignedly when Isabela slammed her winning hand against the table and shouted, "OFF WITH IT!" They stood together, Donnic embarrassedly shucking off the shirt and flushing. "Oh, my." Wielding the hand of cards like a fan, Isabela covered her wide, cat-like grin. "Well no wonder Aveline is so pleased with you, big boy."

Donnic wasn't looking at Isabela's hungry eyes, though, but at Aveline, who was leaning against the back of Isabela's chair with one hand, face red with anger. "Would you care to repeat that, _whore_?"

Before anything could start between them Aodhan stepped up into his chair, nearly tipping over from intoxication, and shouted at the top of his lungs, gaining the attention of everyone in the tavern (except Fenris, who was in a corner and hiding his face in enough embarrassment for the both of them), "You want a show? Fine!" And shucked his underthings off.

Rolling on the floor in laughter, it turned out, was suitable distraction to keep the two ladies from fighting.

* * *

 **Close Enough to Perfect**

The broken down little bed shoved into a far corner of the only room of the mansion Fenris really used was lumpy, soft in all the wrong places and hard in worse ones, the sheets threadbare and the room suffused with a damp chill as the fire burned down to embers. How Fenris remained so hale while living in such conditions was beyond Aodhan, and he made a mental note to bring over some better bedding, have something done about the leaky roof and the broken windows upstairs-maybe try to buy the place, even, to make Fenris' inhabitation legitimate and have workers come over to properly fix things?

Regardless of the conditions, Aodhan was more comfortable and happier than he'd been... well, he couldn't properly remember the last time things had felt so _right_. As if sensing the chill Fenris snuggled into him, leaning the back of his head into Aodhan's shoulder, the tattooed flesh of his lean body bare against Aodhan's own, the curve of his buttock shifted _just so_... Aodhan leaned forward, re-affirming his hold on the elf, nipped at the tip of one ear and ran his thumb along the tattoos across Fenris' chest. The elf didn't wake, didn't flinch away, simply nuzzled against him with an appreciative sound and drifted back into a deeper sleep.

These vulnerable moments meant even more than the words that had passed between them last night. It wasn't just idealistic sentiment on Fenris' part, it wasn't anything even the slightest bit untrue if Fenris was unconsciously behaving so against his programming. Laying here, able to _hold_ Fenris, skin on skin, having spent at least some portion of the night sleeping peacefully together... Aodhan brushed a few stray strands of white hair away from Fenris' eyes. It wasn't everything he had ever hoped for, as so much of that was now beyond his reach, but it was certainly enough.


End file.
